Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were crammed with volumes and loose papers that seemed to defy any organizational system. A large desk lay buried beneathjournals and notes. Dozens of botanical sketches were scattered across the surface, chemical formulas scrawled in the margins. A healthy fire crackled in the grate, throwing warm light onto tall windows overlooking the rain-soaked gardens beyond.
On tables pressed against the far wall, specimen jars were lined in neat rows, their contents suspended in preserving fluid. Flowers were caught mid-bloom, petals frozen in various stages of unfurling. Roots twisted and curled into impossible shapes, some still bearing fine tendrils. Other things I could not immediately identify appeared to be growing despite being severed from any source of nutrition.
All were preserved and patiently still, caught between what they had been and what they would never become.
I understood the impulse—the desire to capture beauty before it faded, to hold a thing in its perfect moment rather than watch it change—yet there was an unease to these jars, the liminal quality of being suspended between life and death that felt deeply familiar now.
I tore my gaze away and turned toward the windows. Through the falling rain, barely visible, stood the skeletal frames of enormous greenhouses, their glass panels catching what little light the gray sky offered.
Darkness seeped in from the edges of my vision. I blinked against it, but the sensation only deepened. A prickle gathered at the base of my skull, and then—
Sunlight. Bright and warm, filtered through glass thick with condensation. The air was heavy and humid, alive with the scent of wet earth. Gentle hands touched mine,guiding me as we examined something delicate and luminous—a specimen that glowed with its own internal light.
The image fractured before I managed to grasp it, leaving only the impression that I had stood in that very room, looking out at those same greenhouses with someone whose presence had mattered.
"Please, sit," Dr. Ambrose said.
I turned to find him watching me with a frown that suggested this was not the first time he had said it.
I obeyed, lowering myself into the seat with more relief than I cared to admit. My legs had begun to tremble—whether from the cold, from exhaustion, or from whatever had just happened, I could not say. I pressed the lingering unease of the vision back into whatever recess it had escaped from and gathered myself.
This was not the moment to come undone. Everything I needed was in this room, dependent upon my ability to appear capable and normal.
At the moment, I was neither, but I was well practiced at pretending otherwise.
His attention roamed over me with clinical assessment, and I had the uncomfortable sensation of being examined, like a specimen under glass—something that might prove worth preserving or dissecting.
Then his gaze caught on my throat again.
He held on the green velvet for a fraction too long before looking away. When our eyes met again, I saw whatlooked almost like recognition and behind it, a sadness I could not make sense of.
I was certain we had never met before. I would have remembered someone who affected me as he did.
How could you?the voice responded, with its customary lack of charity.You barely remember yourself.
I pressed my lips into a firm line, ignoring my companion as I focused my attention on Dr. Ambrose—who, apparently, was already speaking.
“—and your résumé mentioned extensive field experience," he was saying.
He crossed to his desk and retrieved the application I had sent days ago—the letter I had written and rewritten a dozen times, choosing every word with the care of someone trying to sound whole.
"Your father was Edmund Reed?"
"Yes,” I replied, giving him a small, manufactured smile.
"I am familiar with his work on South American orchids. He was quite thorough." He scanned the page, though I suspected he had already committed it to memory. "You assisted him?"
"From childhood, yes.” The small pang of grief beneath my ribs was familiar enough that I spoke through it. “He taught me plant identification, cultivation techniques, and preservation methods. I can recognize most specimens by structure alone, even damaged or incomplete samples."
"Can you?" One dark brow lifted in challenge, or curiosity. It was impossible to determine which. "That is a useful skill."
"My father believed the best botanists understood plants as living systems," I replied, keeping my voice even. "Not merely as pretty flowers to be pressed and mounted for aesthetic pleasure."
"Your father was correct." He set the résumé aside. "Though pretty flowers have their place as well."
Was that amusement threading through his voice? It was difficult to tell. His expression remained maddeningly neutral.
"The position," I said, steering the conversation to the heart of why I was there. "Your advertisement mentioned work with rare and poisonous specimens for your memory research?"
